Dealing to Johns
by Croke
Summary: After Irene seemed to have left the stage, John was typing up the Scandal in Belgravia case on his blog when he started noticing the surfacing of certain emotions- emotions that appeared to be directed at Sherlock.


The keys clacked softly as John typed up the most recent case- "A Scandal in Belgravia"- onto his blog. Sherlock, having heard the clacking from his spot on the couch reading, stepped over to him silently, peering over his shoulder as he continued obliviously, reading the digital words as they appeared on the page. Observing a certain phrasing, he bit his tongue, holding down the urge to make smart remarks while also trying to keep John from noticing him. He failed in the latter.

"Sherlock," John started, the hairs on the back of his neck raised in alarm. "Are you reading over my shoulder?"

Sherlock huffed at being noticed, standing to full attention behind John. He acknowledged John's question. Complaining about how John was explaining the case's events, Sherlock strolled back to his place on the couch before quieting again. Taking a second to recover from the conversation, John continued typing; now feeling overly conscious of Sherlock's presence in the room.

Brain stuttering in the development of words, John paused, hands hovering over the keyboard as he thought about how to present the details of the case- how to express how captivated Sherlock was with Irene. It was so sudden an attraction of thoughts. John's mind told him he would have trouble understanding Sherlock's reasons even, if Sherlock explained them as simply as he could, but his curiosity got the best of him. Saving his work, John swiveled in his chair, hungry for Sherlock's direct answer.

"Sherlock," he started again. "I was wondering- why exactly are you so interested in Irene Adler?"

Sherlock turned to him, attention grabbed, eyebrow quirked. Their eyes made contact before he turned back to the book.

"She bested me," was his simple reply.

Committing the sentence to memory, John requested Sherlock elaborate on the subject. As he did so, John felt a certain twinge in his gut- a slight turn, almost as if he had suddenly come down with an ailment- as he listened to the subtle and well concealed compliments Sherlock was appraising Irene with. Sherlock never praised him like this- Sherlock never praised anyone without a pinch of sarcasm- but the rationalization didn't hinder the twist his stomach was devoting itself to.

Writing the list under "Compliments to Irene," John's thoughts tap-danced around the underlying emotions that resulted in his furrowed eyebrows and irritated glare. Shaking his head, he resumed typing away, thrusting his emotions to the far corner of his psyche.

Passing the remainder of the day blogging, drinking tea and watching television, John tried his hardest to stow away any remaining feelings from his inquiry of Sherlock. That night, though, he went to sleep with curiosity biting at him. It was supposed to be quenched hours before, but with the way he felt when Sherlock was explaining his reasons of interest in Irene… Hoping he was just sickly, even though he knew better as a doctor, he went to sleep.

Waking up the next morning, he was greeted by a Sherlock that had returned to dressing solely in a sheet as he went about his morning routine making tea and such. John saw the fashion in which it was wrapped tightly around his torso; it was more than likely in hope of preventing another scare alike the one he had at Buckingham Palace before, even if the white fabric was the slightest bit revealing. Rubbing his eyes, and trying not to stare at the contours of Sherlock Holmes, John got some tea of his own.

A couple hours later, the day having progressed into noontime, they got a call from the Scotland Yard: something has been killing small cliques of teenagers left and right in the U.K. - and the yard is struggling to find out what "as usual," Sherlock commented once John told him about the new case.

Demanding Sherlock put some pants on, John managed to nag at Sherlock until he was fully clothed before they hopped into a taxi cab and went to visit the crime scenes.

Inspecting each scene carefully, Sherlock's mind pieced the facts together, working through the assumptions and digging through the details. At the most recent scene, he came to a conclusion: all of the adolescents died of drug overdose. He hadn't even seen the bodies. Trailing along an imagined path to the base of a nearby tree, Sherlock let out a brief sound of excitement at the spotting of a syringe.

"This was used to administer drugs to the kids, then?" Inspector Lestrade restated, looking for confirmation from Sherlock as he bagged the needles and sent them in as evidence.

Sherlock nodded, instructing that the yard check the drug substance left as residue on the needles, and that it is more than likely morphine. Anxious to get back to the lab, Lestrade tells them to meet him there as soon as possible. Watching as he slams his car door closed behind him, Sherlock and John waited for Lestrade to pull away before walking down the street and turning a corner, taking their time as they made their way to the yard.

John, as per usual, wanted an explanation of Sherlock's thinking. He needed it for the blog, of course, and so he could understand the case better, but more than anything, his desire to comprehend Sherlock's mind was profound. At first, he was curious as to how Sherlock made such accurate deductions so superbly; now, it had morphed into a ritual where Sherlock would discover the facts and then illustrate them in a way John could interpret while also still providing a window to the mechanisms of Sherlock's mind. It gave John insight into the workings of Sherlock Holmes- workings he wanted to be part of. Their ritual coming to an end as the yard appeared around the corner, John tried to keep his body language quiet, knowing full well that Sherlock gets a kick out of reading people's emotions when they least desire him to.

The discussion Lestrade, Sherlock and John had about the origins of the needles gave them a prominent lead: rumors had been widely spread that a hospital had a bent nurse who had been selling needles, syringes, and morphine- underground, of course.

"And the syringes definitely had morphine in them?" John asked, concerned as well as excited to have a lead.

"Those syringes along with the few others found in the surroundings of the other crime scenes," Lestrade confirmed, lightly pushing one of the syringes encased in an evidence bag towards Sherlock for investigation. "Now we just need to figure out which hospital these syringes came from and catch the bastard who's killing these kids."

"That won't be too difficult," Sherlock muttered as he turned the syringe over in his hands meticulously. "The hospital's logo is right here at the bottom beside the supply company's logo."

John's eyebrows lifted, miffed.

"To the hospital, then," John stated, glee laced into his voice as he rose from his chair and followed Sherlock out the door.

Walking beside him again, John wondered aloud if and how Sherlock was planning on finding the culprit.

"Yes," he answered curtly.

John nodded along, waiting for him to continue.

"I plan on buying morphine."

John stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Shaking his head, he continued on. He should have expected that from Sherlock.

"Your face is all over the papers and internet, Sherlock. How are you supposed to discreetly buy from an underground morphine dealer?" John asked, perplexed.

Sherlock paused. Turning to John, the corners of his lips turned up.

"You will buy morphine."

He picked up walking again, leaving John on the brink of hysteria. Startled, John jogged up to Sherlock, walking swiftly beside him.

"Me? Sherlock, I-"

"Well who else, John?" Sherlock turned to him sharply.

Closing his mouth and furrowing his eyebrows, he glared into Sherlock's eyes indignantly. Sherlock raised his eyebrows in challenge before resuming his walk again. Huffing, John followed suit.

"I highly disagree with this plan," John grumbled after a block of walking.

"Shhhh," Sherlock shushed him, causing John to glare at him more.

Hurrying in his step, John walked ahead of Sherlock, grabbing a cab. Sherlock skittered to catch the cab while John sat in it, contemplating whether he should leave Sherlock behind or not.

Slipping in beside him, Sherlock glared at John, who, in response, raised his eyebrows at Sherlock. Huffing, Sherlock looked out the window while John smiled smugly.

Cold, stagnant water dripped onto John's sleeve, the stench making his nose wrinkle. The abandoned warehouse around him creaked and shuddered under the winds outside, the draft causing a shiver to dash down John's spine.

"I knew this was a bad idea," John groaned in thought, shifting in the chair he was tied to in an attempt to get comfortable. "But what did he do? Shushed me."

Grumbling angrily, John tried the ropes again.

"Hey!" his captor shouted at him as he came back into view. "When is your buddy- eh, Sherlock- getting here? We don't have all day."

"Sherlock? He'll come when he said he would," John scoffed quietly, trying not to antagonize the man.

The man sighed, dark skin glinting dully in the light.

"I just wanted to get my money and go home," the man sighed. Mood swinging, he glared down at John, kicking his chair. "But you had to show up. Bloody bastard, trying to bust a professional morphine dealer."

John nodded, sighing. He knew it wouldn't work, but that didn't stop Sherlock.

The side door squeaked open, slamming shut after one of the dealer's accomplices scuttled through.

"They're outside."

Smirking, the dealer instructed them to open the main doors- the giant doors that shipments would be unloaded through. Sherlock appeared in the doorway alone, a briefcase at his side. Strutting in at the dealer's signal, Sherlock dropped the suitcase on the cement floor.

John glared at Sherlock.

"Good job, John," Sherlock started almost condescendingly. "You got kidnapped."

The dealers laughed.

"What were you expecting with that idiotic plan?" they responded.

Sherlock smirked, his thin lips turning upward. John squinted. He knew that expression; he could see the gears grinding at top speed. Sherlock was planning something- or was this the plan?

Keeping quiet, John watched as Sherlock rebuffed the dealer, antagonizing and frustrating him. The dealer was becoming furious, his ears and face lobster red. Stomping over to John, the man whipped out a syringe, popping the plastic cover off before glaring at Sherlock menacingly.

"Are you going to give me the goddamn money or is your little boyfriend here going to O.D.?" the man brandished the needle before John's eyes.

John expressed confusion, and would have snubbed the man if the syringe wasn't so close. Focusing his gaze on Sherlock and shooting daggers at him, he noticed that look… Sherlock's rainbow irises glinted dimly in the poor lighting, but the dazzling deliberation behind it was as apparent as it would be under the bright sun. John's stomach filled with butterflies- similarly to how it usually did when he normally observed Sherlock's work. Noting every subtle movement, every deduction, John felt his thoughts glossing over.

He was tugged back into the situation with a hand in his hair. Taking notice of the syringe's readied position near his arm, he switched his gaze to Sherlock.

"Goddamn it, Sherlock, just give them the damn money," he growled at him.

Sherlock shushed him. Eyes rolling, John huffed incredulously, rage pinching his sides.

"John stop being hysterical. This situation is all under control," Sherlock started pacing casually back and forth. Eyebrows rose and furrowed. "This was all part of the plan. I thought you would have realized that by now."

John groaned. He was hoping that wasn't the case. He should have known.

In the next instance, the syringe flew to the floor, thrown out of the man's hand by a sly Sherlock. The Scotland Yard poured in from all entry ways, cuffing and containing all the other criminals. Waiting patiently and calmly as Sherlock untied the restraints on John's ankles and wrists, John paid special attention to Sherlock; the small tremor in his hands, the acute flush on his ears. Sherlock was… nervous?

"Sherlock-"

"Let's hurry up. I don't want to sit in traffic," Sherlock stated, his eyes cautiously boring into John's as he helped him rise from the chair. "John."

Sitting in the diner drinking tea as they waited for their order to come, John poked at the emotions he had been feeling those last couple days. It was a strange mixture: he felt the usual irritation and exasperation he had towards Sherlock, but there was something more- something intense, something _passionate_. Taking another sip of his tea, John glared into the back of Sherlock's head.

"Your eyes haven't left me for any extended period of time since the warehouse," Sherlock leaned over, whispering into John's ear as he put his tea down.

Sputtering, John rotated to face Sherlock.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he refuted.

Sherlock snickered. "I have been observing you all day, John. I know that you have been reciprocating the action."

John, shocked that Sherlock had been watching him as well, opened his mouth to speak. He closed it soon after, though, unsure of how to respond to the statement. Their order arrived before he was able to formulate a proper response.

Rolling back up to the apartment, Sherlock began undressing immediately- literally, from the minute John shut the door behind them- shedding his coat, jacket, shirt and every other layer of clothing he was wearing as he made way to his bedroom. John, stunned and vaguely turned on by this act, quietly made to make tea before picking up Sherlock's clothes and knocking on the door. Getting the okay for entry, he opened the door. Spotting Sherlock in a sheet on the bed, he sighed.

"Your clothes, Sherlock."

"Leave them," he commanded, sitting otherwise still.

Placing them on the ground by the door, John stood in the doorway, feeling as if he was not yet dismissed. A moment of silence stretched between them; Sherlock patted the spot on the bed beside him; John raised an eyebrow. The silence resuming, Sherlock repeated the action. Twisting his head, he repeated the action yet again.

"John."

"What?" John answered.

"Join me."

Mouthing okay, John sat beside Sherlock placidly.

"No. I meant _join_ me," Sherlock persisted.

John gestured down to his clothes, not entirely sure he was implying John go sheet as well. Sherlock nodded.

"I don't think so."

"Just do it. I know you find clothes just as distasteful as I do."

Naked enough already with Sherlock's constant evaluating him like a piece of literature, John went to his room, stripping down to his boxers. Glaring at the black pattern, he decided that he was positive he should keep them on, for reasons, before he wrapped himself in his own sheet and returning to Sherlock's side.

Sherlock looked him up and down before rolling his eyes.

"You're wearing underwear. Of course."

John went to spit back at him when Sherlock held a finger to his lips. Frowning at him, John closed his mouth gruffly.

"Is there a movie you've wanted to see, John?" Sherlock inquired quaintly.

John supplied the title of a movie he had wanted to see a few months ago, albeit, a bit suspiciously.

"Go get your computer then, and let's watch it. I'll drink tea, of course, and you will drink beer. It will be… nice."

Surprised by the suggestion, John retrieved his laptop as the tea finished. Grabbing a beer, he retreated back to the room, closing the door with his foot. Setting down the bottle and glass, he set up his laptop. Sitting back on the bed, he handed Sherlock his tea, raising his bottle in cheer.

Sitting together in Sherlock's room on the plush bed, John in a sheet and boxers, and Sherlock in just a sheet, they watched the movie together, Sherlock making snippy remarks and causing them both to laugh. Continuing the night with another movie, and another, they sat comfortably like that, enjoying each other's presence.

John doesn't remember when the last movie ended; he doesn't remember the end of it, or the title, or even the plot of the whole fiasco. Glancing to his left groggily, he spotted a droopy-eyed Sherlock staring at him.

"Have you been watching me this whole time?" he asked, his cheek adjusting against the bed.

Sherlock snickered.

"I've always been watching."

Sherlock's eyes fluttered close. Unsure if Sherlock had been sleep talking, or if he even talked in his sleep, John waited a beat before sighing. Sherlock's eyelashes stuttered. The lids pulled back to reveal the multicolored orbs of Sherlock Holmes, the colors entrancing John. Leaning forward the tiniest bit, his eyes flickered to Sherlock's petite pink lips. His gaze retracing Sherlock's eyes, he shifted forward a little more, and a little more, until his lips grazed Sherlock's. Separating minutely, their eyes connected. John saw the slight curiosity in Sherlock's eyes.

"Have I piqued your interest, Mr. Holmes?" John wondered aloud quietly, his jealously towards Irene resurfacing.

"Yes," Sherlock answered slowly, his hand rising to caress John's cheek, his eyebrows furrowing. Thumbing over his lips, he leaned in, their breaths mingling as they sat millimeters apart. "Is this what attraction feels like?" Sherlock shivered as their lips brushed accidentally.

John nodded carefully, dying to kiss Sherlock again.

Initiating the action this time, Sherlock kissed John more aggressively, the motion lasting minutes with Sherlock attempting to savor John before pulling away abruptly.

"This is an experiment," Sherlock muttered, his line of sight never leaving John's. Cupping the other side of John's face, he kissed him feverishly.

Jerking away, John stuttered out a quick 'what' before being recaptured by Sherlock's lips.

Trying again, John called Sherlock's name.

"Shhh," Sherlock shushed him with a finger to John's bruised lips. Glaring at him for the umpteenth time that day, John bit the fingertip harmlessly.

Chuckling, Sherlock studied John's angry features in a way John could almost say was lovingly. Placing his lips onto John's once again, Sherlock hummed a sum of delight. A knot twisted in John's stomach. John wasn't exactly sure it could be described purely as attraction, but it's a start.

Taking a second to breathe, their foreheads pressed together, John wanted to speak up, but no words came out. Startled, John tried again, and failed.

"John?" he could hear Sherlock calling him, but it was not the one in front of him. "John?"

John's world started shaking lightly. The room grew brighter, and that's when it hit him. He was dreaming. Sending the dream Sherlock one last longing look, he awoke.

He could hear tedious murmurs as Sherlock called his name insistently. Quieting once he noticed John awakening, he sat back.

"Good," Sherlock stated as John sat up. "The movie has ended and I don't know what you want to watch next. Find something."

Handing John the laptop, Sherlock waited cutely. Glancing at Sherlock, John investigated his eyes. Noting how he was looking at him, a question began to form in his mind. As he let it sit, turning it over on his tongue, it grew in intensity, slipping out before he could stop it.

"Is that how you looked at Irene?"

His ears flushed and his stomach dropped. This wasn't the Sherlock in his dream. He hadn't kissed this Sherlock, he hadn't gazed longingly into his eyes, and he hadn't tried to spew his newly-discovered emotions all over him. He shouldn't have asked such an obvious question.

He was about to take it back when Sherlock interjected.

"I did not look at her in this way, John," he started solemnly. "I will be able to crack her code one day, and then she will lose her interest point. You, on the other hand… I can't decide if you are truly ordinary or not- if your mind is too simple or simply an enigma."

Their persistent eye contact continued, the air in the room seeming to increase in temperature. Opening his mouth, Sherlock was about to verbalize his thoughts when Mrs. Hudson announced the presence of a visitor.

"Boys, you have a visitor!"

Hearing this, Sherlock closed his mouth and broke the contact, promptly standing and stammering about how John needs to get dressed, how they have company, and "God, where are my pants."

Smiling, John toed the end of Sherlock's sheet, giggling as Sherlock stumbled and lost part of his sheet again. Swiveling on his feet, he fumed at him, giving cause for John to guffaw boisterously. Eyes following Sherlock's figure as he dressed himself and left to meet the guest, he grinned. Rising as well, he exited the room. He was never going to get complacent with Sherlock as a flat mate. He was living in peace, for the most part, with Sherlock, solving cases and blogging about them. Maybe that was what kept him around- or was it the apparent chaos in Sherlock's brain?

Hearing the guest come up the stairs, John stowed the thought away for the next time Sherlock would suggest they watch a movie; he would drink tea, of course, and John would drink beer. And it would be… nice.

~fin~


End file.
